# Touch [slightly naughty and pretty weird in an ew way]



## Vladimir Putin's LJ (Mar 30, 2009)

EDIT: I hope I haven't killed anyone through the sheer shittiness if this piece. No one seems to want to reply.

Political fanfiction is the best thing in the world.

Okay, not really, I'll admit that I wrote this as, well, writing practice because I found the unfinished story in my Documents folder (with no recollection of it whatsoever, creepily enough) and felt it needed a conclusion. And I enjoy Putin and Medvedev.

I want advice on style and flow more than the actual content, because the content is horrible and reprehensible and I'm not even going to post all of it because it borders on the unnaceptable. There's no actual sex or anything and no swear words but you know.

So I'll just post the first few lines and hope for the-
less
worst
?
And I'd like to provide better flow and less bore than Falthor but I'm pretty sure I'm a worse writer than he is.

Anyway, here we go:

_The sound of rain against the windows. It was making me sleepy.

Despite what many people think, it is not always cold here. In fact, in some places, the temperature gets so high that many die of heatstroke. I should know. I’m the one who looks through the fatality numbers.
Of course, not all rumours are untrue. We do get freezing cold weather, the most badly affected parts being villages in Siberia. They are so remote most people know nothing about them. But I do. It’s my job.

I was actually looking through the latest news from those isolated parts when it happened. I had brought Pink Floyd’s Division Bell with me, and it was currently playing at what I admit was a volume slightly above appropriate for the office. Maybe it was on purpose. Maybe I wanted to attract his attention.

If it was intentional, I succeeded. Just as I heard the first notes of Poles Apart, he roughly pushed open the door. Roughly, but not violently. Nothing of what he did was ever overtly violent. I could tell he was in a bad mood though, by the way he didn’t knock. He was normally exceedingly polite.

‘Dmitry,’ he said, his usual poker face on display, ‘turn that noise down. You’re at work, not in your car.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.’

It was ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to be so formal around him. So scared of him.

‘Well, the deed is done. I needed that concentration, and you’ve taken it from me, all because of that rubbish.’

He looked at me, expecting an answer. What could I say to that? ‘I’m sorry I broke your precious and obviously irrecoverable concentration, let me lend you mine’?

Whatever he wanted to hear, he was set on it. We stared at each other for two good minutes, him holding the doorknob as if ready to leave but awaiting some sort of signal, me behind my desk, sitting in my comfortable leather chair. I could feel my palms sticking to the dark hide, my heart thudding. Even though he had not been actively associated with the secret police for years, being in the KGB is like riding a bicycle: you never forget what to do and it takes you very far.
And in his case, like his bike-riding skills, his intimidation technique was top notch.

‘It’s not rubbish,’ I said, finally, ‘I brought it in because I thought you might like it.’

His eyebrows shot straight up in surprise, a rare display of emotion, but as was usual his face returned to its placid state in an instant.

‘I might like it? Since when are you aware of what I like?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Everyone I know likes it.’

‘Yes, but do you expect me to follow everyone’s example? Is that how I became President?’

I said nothing.

‘Remember, you’re here only because I want you to. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t even be in Russia.’

I just shrugged again. I’m not that fond of confrontations, really. Plus, he was right. He did have complete control over me. He usually didn’t rub it in my face like this, because I like to think he’s quite fond of me, but today he seemed strangely irritated.

‘I heard you want to distance yourself from me,’ he said, after several seconds, ‘is it true?’

I thought it through for a second.

‘Well… I thought it might stop people from spreading rumours about our supposed close relationship. I’ve been told many think you’re a sort of master to me.’

This quip made him smile, as I knew it would.

‘It’s flattering to know I’m held in such high esteem. Perhaps it is my fondness for physical sports involving two people mixed with your talents in yoga that make people speculate,’ he said, moving across the room towards the window. It was still raining outside, making the sight quite depressing and bleary. I turned towards one of my computer screens, choosing one that faced in a direction opposing his. I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. *[I think this is the worst bit in this entire shitfest, personally]*

I had become increasingly frustrated these past few months, as my new Presidential job was proving to be far more difficult than I had anticipated, especially with so many instances of my being called a puppet or a tool. I had expected these remarks, but nowhere near as many.
This experience was made even harsher due to the fact that my wife had grown increasingly cold towards me, and as such she hadn’t allowed me to properly touch her in four months.
Coupled with the fact that he had started to appear in my mind more and more often during my self-servicing sessions, I was starting to feel under a very large strain, both mentally and physically, and especially in a particular area of my physique. I had always been attracted to him, but it was getting worse, and this was really not an ideal time for him or I to be talking about ‘close relationships’ with each other or labouring physical activity performed in pairs.

Minutes passed before I heard him clear his throat.

‘Dmitry, all this rain has made me remember something: is the Kremlin pool any good?’

I looked up from my webcam, which I was setting up in order to film my video blog, and gave an imperceptible shrug. Well, imperceptible to your average mortal; he’d probably registered every movement.

‘It is a very good facility,’ I replied, turning in my chair to face him, ‘and I have to say I’m very satisfied with it. I go there every day, before and after work, and it is quite lovely. Why do you ask?’

‘I was thinking of testing it out myself,’ he said, slowly strolling in my direction, ‘Judo and wrestling, although very amusing, aren’t really enough to keep me in top form anymore, seeing as I’m beginning to feel the strains of age. Since swimming requires the use of all your muscles, I thought I might give it at least a try.’_
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After this there are thinly veiled references to masturbation so I'll stop.
Thanks if you took the time to read it, feel free to criticize whatever, tell me to stop writing forever, etc. I'll probably agree.
Oh and yeah you can also tell me the subject matter sucks and that I should really write about better things and I'm fully aware of that. Just pretend these aren't real-life people if it makes you feel less creeped out :v

I personally think my sentences are too short and too spaced but that's probably a side-effect of writing like a million essays with no real fiction thrown in.


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